Saturday, October 6, 2012

A Season of E-Correspondence, Family Style

July 20, 2012

HEY, WAIT!  we're on the internet at almost the same time!  Don't goooooooooo!  I feel so close, so near!  I haven't read your email, even, I am so excited that you sent it a mere 10 minutes or so,  But... did you hear about the dood who killed 14 people and hurt a bunch more at a theatre where the new batman movie was débuting. [débuting?  don't sound right, do it?  shore as shit don't look right, neither.]  now that is pure batshit.

okay.  a brief pause while i read what looks to be one of your more longish emails...

i will respond by that clever technique of changing font color, and being BOLD.

On Fri, Jul 20, 2012 at 7:19 AM, Grader Boob wrote:
Howdy--  well, howdy yourself, handsome!
I know it will be hard to believe, but your package is actually rumbling your way, tightly grasped in the talons of the USPS. Should take several days to get there.  ah, but the larger question?  do i WANT it to get here.  am i going to go batshit over it... not in the sense of the batshit shooter in the gas mask.  here is a test.  i do not know what state this happened in, but i am going out on a limb and guessing either florida (sorry) or texas (because texas is fucked majorly up).   oops!  it was colorado, and good news, the death toll has gone down.  i'm not sure how that happens, but i like it.  maybe they can work it down to zero.  maybe it's a skill they can transfer to syria, and other places full of weapons going off willy-nilly.  a 3-month old was shot.  a 3-month old.  yep... good morning, grader boob!  
back to the package... of course, i want it.  i am dreaming dreams you would not believe -- not horrid, or even, really, disturbing... but i continue to dream of dad's watch in almost all of them.  he keeps handing it to me.  i keep noting that it is not a rolex, that it is silver and that i love silver, that it is clunky, and then, always, i note that time ran out, that i let time run out.  yeah, i'm swift that way, realizing the obvious, and doing nothing about it.  i also have been thinking a lot about k... the last time i saw her (i think), she and mom and i were at the beach, i was visiting from berkeley, thinking that it mattered to tell "the folks" that i was living with jp, the cheatingest jerk ever to declare love for a girl.  the night i got back, before jp even had my luggage in the bedroom, he was telling me about this waitress he had met who liked his poetry... meanwhile, back at the beach? k was the sweetest help to me.  she made it almost painless and i don't remember exactly how, but she had us all cracking up.  i loved her for it... and even that kind of memory-love doesn't go away.  i remember wondering if she had had the chance to live with Mr. Vivacious V, The Soil Scientist, who clearly shared the cheating gene with my jp, The Writer -- maybe she'd not have married El Jerko.  She deserved so much better.  But then... [ARE YOU STILL THERE?  I HAVEN'T HAD ANY COFFEE, AND THAT IN ITSELF IS A STORY!] according to star trek logic, she'd maybe never have met this joe person, who sounds like a neat dood.  in fact, do 100 words on dood joe, right after you do a 1000 on ms. k.  to my great shame, i've no interest (none, i mean NONE -- what is wrong with me?) in nephew brian... not since i found his MUG SHOT on the internet.  it was the middle of the night, i was in my usual middle-of-the-night state, and i simply entered his name.  this is what turned up... and about all i can say is that he IS a handsome lad:  

[link to a mug shot]

Not much going on here--I'm holding "office hours" as I write, but no one seems to want to log on and chat. I think that if I held them in the evening it would work better for them, but I'd then be at the mercy of the home computer, which is currently residing at the Computer Corner undergoing repairs. What a technological world we live in.  sadly, i've found it cheaper to get new laptops than to have the messed up ones repaired.  of course, you probably don't spill entire cups of coffee on yours... or drop them, repeatedly, on your CRPS-afflicted foot.  same foot each time, same spot each time.  but maybe you have a desktop?  if i spent more time out of bed, i'd go back to desktops.  i'd like to see a desktop fly off my desk and onto my foot!  ha!  is Computer Corner reputable?  do you get frequent flyer miles?  i would LOVE  to have a top of the line, fast, readable (remember, i have the family glaucoma gift, plus cataracts, and the poundage gift from 15 years of steroids... also i don't have much of a chin and my nose is an obvious punk, and who the hell thought giving me rough, curly, uninteresting hair?) 'puter.  make it a laptop that does not heat up, weighs less than a pound and doesn't collapse under the stress of piles of cat hair.
Speaking of technology, has it figured out a way to handle your new strain of bacteria? Or even the old one? Hope the regimen you're on has some positive results. Do they tinker with the various percentages of the components in the cocktails they give you?  the last question is easiest.  one of the reasons we practically LIVE at that damned office is so that they can measure the levels of each antibiotic, as well as the many pretty effing serious side effects they cause.  so they sometimes tinker with dosages every 7 days.  a good joke?  in the hospital, i keep fighting with nurses/doctors/janitors that i am NOT allergic to daptomycin, despite it perpetually appearing on my computerized (they're everywhere!) allergy list.  last week, dr. b -- whom you would love -- explained to me that yes, i have one of the life-threatening side effects, usually starting in the second week of administration, but that he doesn't care because he thinks i can stand it and it is the drug HE WANTS.  okay, so, as for p. acnes, no one has told me whether they've even cultured for it again -- not, i am guessing, since the swabs that grew came from "deep tissue" in my arm.  my p. acnes antennna are still going off, based on fever and increasing, instead of decreasing, pain in that former shoulder area.  that's the one he is throwing daptomycin at...  if i may offer advice to you and anyone of your acquaintance who end up getting weeks of i.v. antibiotics:  yogurt, plain, not mixed with fruit, and ridiculously expensive little pills of probiotics.  
And in answer to your question, Mom is, indeed, staying at the beach house. It's the place that has the most meaning for her, and it has ties back to Mimi.  good for her, god bless her.  does she need help, have help?  since the fix-it folks attended the memorial, i am guessing she's got that covered.  oh, god bless her.  waking up to the sound of surf.  walking the beach.  god bless her.  does she think often of mimi?  all i remember were mimi's final years, so full of alzheimer's confusion.  were you there the day we found her in the closet?  i *believe* she wanted to leave, and had decided to get her coat, and that's about as far as she got.  i used to love going to mimi's on afternoons i was supposed to then go on to st. paul's united methodist church choir practice or confirmation classes.  i often did not end up at st. pauls... but at the library, or walking the mean streets of downtown g'boro.  but mimi would watch her "stories," catch me up on the plots, smoke and cough, tell me funny stories. but she was not my mom, and i didn't have to watch her mind decline.  staying at the beach house!  yay!  gin rummy.  boiled shrimp served on newspaper.  happy hour.  stupid question, but please be honest:  does she need anything (beyond the obvious)?

 One question, Jim R asked me to ask you if he could start swapping email with you. I told him I'd ask.
If you want to start the conversation, his email is x.  um, holy shit, batman.  why would he want to talk to me, and why would he want to swap howdies with me NOW?  but, okay, i will send a pro forma. well, i will AFTER you tell me what he is like.  i'm serious. all i remember is that he had red hair -- probably no longer, eh? -- and that mom once called his wife a whore.
That's all from here. Hope you're doing well--worry about you.  i am not doing well and i am worried, too. scared.  and feeling very alone, no matter that someone is around.  i think the best i can hope for is dobby's sweet, loving face cheering me on when i die.  right now, though, he is sitting like a very old guy, comfy in a well-worn [imaginary] la-z-boy, scratching his [imaginary] nuts, looking up now and then to smile at me like a little cat maniac.  
Love to all, feline and human, at Marlinspike Hall. and all our love back... 
Grader Boob Profderien

P.S.  DO YOU NEED ANYTHING?  smooches and hugs! 

August 10, 2012

Just a short note for ya. Sitting in the office at XXX trying to figure out what the hell I'm doing--which is a full-time job all on its own.
Haven't heard from you, so I do hope that the medicos are helping and not hurting you.
I'll keep a good thought for you, no matter what your situation is--that's just the kind of guy I am.
Pass along a howdy to Fred and the felines.
Grader Boob

PS. I'm attaching the photo I scanned for Jim R. I've got others that I've yet to get around to. This has Granddad reaching up and grabbing a tree limb. Shot from behind, it's always been one of my faves, so much so that I keep it in my office.

my brother-units, the photographers
granddad, who was, at this point, blind

August 10, 2012 (17 minutes later)

dearest grader boob: a 17-minute response time, gotta be a record of some sort!

let's just say i'm having a hard time, and that i should learn to shut up and get in the "having a hard time" line.  too much pain for me to handle with anything approaching dignity.

funniest anecdote of recent days:  fred and i had two appts to make this week, the most important being making first contact with the hip surgeon, "world famous, one of the finest," via a meeting with his physician's assistant, one susan s.  i should have been more aware of the probability for a screw-up, given the obvious seussian etymology of her name.  we allow 45 minutes of driving time for all appts on the famed beechtree street, yes, the very street that orris du-MAH road up and down, selling milk by horse-drawn cart.  we got caught behind a wreck, and arrived 10 minutes late.  

i should qualify that we arrived 10 minutes late to "the beechtree office" that i have used for the past 7 years.  after another 15 minutes of sitting in the waiting room, a breathless clerk told us we were at the wrong office, that there was another beechtree office, two buildings down.  we rush over there, me cursing the mindless clods in wheelchairs that were moseying along well below 3.5 mph, as i wove in, i wove out, approaching that maximum limit of 5 mph.  we arrive, check in (again), are welcomed nicely and told to take a seat.  a bit later, i hear my name, close my stephen king masterpiece, and roll in the direction of the beckoning noise.  "profderien, you were late for your appointment and the PA decided she will not see you.  your appt has been cancelled."

mwa ha ha!

the next funniest anecdote?  yesterday, meeting with the gorgeous jacqueline j, PA to my world famous infectious disease doc.  i explain why i don't have the testing her boss wanted all set up by the new hip doctor, seeing as how i had my appt cancelled due to tardiness.  jacqueline has no sense of... well, i want to say ANYTHING, but i guess it would be more accurate to say... no sense of what we normal folk go through.  so she says, "but, profderien, didn't you explain that you really needed that appointment, that it was important?" a beautiful woman, except when she has her brows furrowed as she faces yet another idiot patient.  [they think my right hip prosthesis is infected.  mwa ha ha!]

moving right along, i love all the job offers you got, but want to scream out:  trust no one!  

is mom alone at the cottage?  personally, i would want to be, but probably not after just losing my husband...  i hope she finds comfort there, and packs on a few pounds from the milkshakes.

jim r never answered me... i may have said something "wrong," but i don't know what.

lovely photo, grader boob.  thanks for sending it.

to be honest, i am fighting off suicidal tendencies.  i think they are neurologically based, as asinine as that sounds.  whenever a "spell" of crps dystonia/spasms begins, the first 15-20 minutes, all i can think of is suicide, literally.  it's like it occurs in the part of my brain responsible for making-all-this-shit-worthwhile.  after 20 minutes, i am okay again.  i tell medicos, because i find it rather scary, but get The Stare in return.  some of them talk about the limbic system, which is integrally connected, some think, to crps.  i am more on the side, though, of the vast majority that believe there is no limbic system at all, so... there you go!

should i write jim r. again?

tell brute i love her.  how goes the restaurant venture?  (cannot recall if it was a restaurant or catering or bakery... help!)
i'd say tell mom i love her, too, but i think she'd just be insulted.  thanks so much for letting me know how she and "they" are doing.

oh... yeah... and YOU... how you doin'?  smooches and love,

treading water

August 11, 2012


Hang in there.

I do have to compliment you on one thing--the lack of cursing and swearing in your anecdote. I supplied those as I was reading. (I've noticed that my swearing is always a union of two themes--sex and intellect; hence, as I was reading your email, my recurring epithet was a variation of "Motherfucking Nitwits" or "Cocksucking Morons". It's never race or gender with me--just sex and intellect.)

As for the darker tendencies, fight through them by imagining that you've killed the medical personnel instead. (No, that would be wrong.)

As for Jim, I'd not read anything into the silence. He seemed genuinely interested when we talked, so unless you told him off, I'd just wait it out. The ball's in his court then.

K and J's venture is called "X," a tasty xxxxxxxxxx concoction, and their target market seems to be the hoity toi or the local rednecks. They seem to be picking up a bit when last I spoke with her about them.

And Mom was planning to send you a thank you note. I think she's not gotten around to them yet. But like I said before, your card and boxwoods were so very sweet and considerate.

What a way with words you have--you have no idea. And I'll not tell you because I can't figure out what to write down!

Well, I think I'll leave this office and waste the day. Why work when you can just fret about it?

Love to those in Tête de Hergé. And don't forget that there's to be a Ryan on the Romney ticket--woo hoo. Jesus.

Grader Boob

August 17, 2012

hullo --

so where do you stand with classes -- none, some, an overabundance?  feel ready?

how's this for a wordsmith such as i?  i'm pooped.

fred got a ukulele! it's real cute and don't you dare ever tell him i said that. his workroom is now making musical space for three guitars, a keyboard, one drum thingy, and the itty bitty uke.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX?   hell, i've got a new swear phrase right there.  XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX!

no, i didn't tell jim off, you ninny.  i don't know what i did. given the way things have been going, i just hope he's okay...

i think it might kill me if mom were to write me a thank you note.  may the earth swallow me up.

is she safe there, alone?  is their dog the protective type, you know, one look, and and an evil-doer takes off in the opposite direction?  should i get her a taser for xmas?

god, this must be hard for her.

do you know what i've been watching on the telly, sometimes 4-5 episodes at a time?  LITTLE HOUSE ON THE PRAIRIE.  help!

cat update:
this here is dobby as i find him every morning after i've fetched my coffee.  it's dobby's spa time -- 10 minutes of belly rubs (hence the pose) and combing/brushing.  if you don't do it, he starts knocking stuff onto the floor.  not kidding.

okay, marmy has not forgiven me for administering her eye "goop" when she had an infection. it's been about 2 months, and she'll have nothing to do with me.  this is usually what i see:

buddy, our massive and soon to be massiver maine coon?  it's almost impossible to get between his ears.  so this is what he looks like.  all i know about what he might be thinking is that it likely involves food.

i loves ya.

fred is plucking away on his uke... but he'd wave or something if he knew i was writing...

August 26, 2010 (just prior to the RNC convention, held in Grader Boob's village)

okay, isaac is in place, what's next?

i just wanted to drop a line to say "good job" on the category 2 hurricane, but do you think that will be enough?  we don't want any deaths, like they had in haiti -- maybe the catering to the convention could be disrupted by old egg salad and the delegates/candidates forced to munch on matzot and lime-flavored bottled water.

or magick cause the microphone to function only when ron paul speaks.

so keep at it... 

but stay dry and safe, too.

all my love,

September 3, 2012


just give me a simple "howdy, i'm busy, will write when i can.... but i am basically okay." 
or "things suck majorly, send in the troops."


September 4, 2012

Sorry for not responding, but I'm tired of sitting at the computer and seeing no end in sight or a solution to the "fine mess, Ollie" that I've put myself in.
Am wrangling with 3 plagiarists as well, two from a XXX semester that's in its first week. What the hell are these people thinking? The time that these will take up is time I don't have.
Will write once mood improves! (Good luck figuring out that nonexistent date!)
Plus, all I want to do is sleep.
If I thought I'd be around more, I'd buy me a dog.
Well love to all in Ukuleleville.
Grader Boob

PS. Sorry for the grumpiness. I have to make a concerted effort not to carry this into class.

October 6, 2012

Haven't heard from you in awhile, so I hope you're doing well.
I'm slowly slipping over the edge, as the grading and the prep consume all of my days.
I've was ill on Monday and Tuesday, cancelling classes at both XXX and XXX. The revelation was that XXX expected me to line up a sub and to pass along my lesson plan. I chuckled and told them no sub but here's half a lesson plan! I then realized why I don't teach at the lower levels. Lost a lot of respect for the school. When I suggested just cancelling the class and that I could reschedule everything that was missed, I got back a line something like "we need to give the students all of the quality time they deserve."
XXX, as always, just cancelled the class for the day.
Either way, my reaction to both was the same--vomiting and sweating, sneezing and honking.
Well, I'm gonna step out of the office now. Came in at 4:30 to finish XXX's 110 papers. DId that and am trying to figure out what to do next. I've got a list but I'm avoiding it.
Many thanks for the too-much gift. Save your money and write me some emails!
(Now don't think you'll be getting it back. But do send those emails.)
Love to all the Tête-de-Hergéites.
Grader Boob
PS. Mom's doing okay--some days better than the others. K, or as she likes to say, "the sweet in Sweet Goobers," is doing fine and says howdy to you.
And that's the news.
I didn't see it but did Obama really do as poorly as everyone is claiming? Romney's such a stick figure--I can't imagine him besting anyone in any sort of conversation.
And I never heard back on your reaction to the "It was tense." joke. Huh?

October 6, 2012

you're just going to have to believe me when i tell you that i had TWO emails to you, both awaiting some sort of witty ending, i guess, sitting in my "drafts" folder.

because i LOVE that joke!  hank loves that joke!  it is my favorite kind of joke!  the only joke i ever made up was modeled on that... model.  it goes:

the bartender looks up and sees three guys walking into his bar.  he screams:  "get out of my bar!"

hahahaha! i love it.  sure, i get strange looks, but it makes me laugh.

is mom really okay? i have no right to ask, i know, but what is she doing with her time?  does she feel safe?  does she still have the pooch?  is it a watch-pooch?  (rolling eyes)  do you think it'd be okay if i dropped her a line.  do you think she'd like my joke?

i'm trying to be insensitively sensitive.  i cannot imagine how she must feel.

say "hey" and happy BD to brutus.  is that sweet goober stuff selling?

now... screw XXX  do the make-up classes and show them how it's done in the big boy, grown-up world. yes, i am in a mood.

because you are sick!  if YOU say you cannot teach because you are sick... then you absolutely cannot!  too bad on the spot "vomiting and sweating, sneezing and honking" couldn't have been magically produced upon their desktops.

crucial question:  do you feel better?

moi?  oh... well... i have been kicking specialist butt, just for fun.  i had a revelation, much like the saul-into-paul thang, but not on the road to damascus, on the road to downtown atlanta, to park in another doctor's lot and pay $5 for the privilege. what would i be doing on the road to damascus anyway, do you think i am crazy?

i was badgered into seeing a hip ortho specialist to determine if the p. acnes bacteria had spread to my wily hips, as they hurt a LOT.  he couldn't look me in the face, nor the hip, nor the leg.  he sort of looked at the floor.  he was "the best." everyone of my docs is "the best." he said, "even if they are infected, i wouldn't operate on you." bells went off and a voice came over the invisible loudspeaker, saying, "thanks for playing!"

so i reported back to all the specialists who thought he would help them out, and tried to ignore their discomfiture.

went home, got mad.  thought about who HAD helped me, and it came down to two "practices" -- dr. s, my go-to-guy internist, and dr. d, who did 10+ shoulder surgeries trying to defeat that goddamn bacteria.  thought some more.  realized that EVERYTHING eventually gets dumped on dr. s, and that he never complains.  he also fields ridiculous emails from me -- and i write in the same style for just about everyone.  "audience" be damned.  he is universally helpful, polite, and compassionate.  also, very, very patient.

so... i went to d's PA, whom i like a lot.  his name is bob!  told bob i was done with trying to cure the osteomyelitis. (he actually teared up, the cad)  decided i want good pain control and to be left alone.  he recommended a medication -- mobic -- for bone pain.  and it turned out that that was a splendiferous pick. it does help.  god bless bob.

then i practically demanded an immediate appointment with my hawaiian-shirted, always-sandaled neurologist, barry m. ooooo, he made me mad.  he kept saying, "i wish you would go find a great specialist who knew all about crps,  a researcher somewhere... etcetera." finally, i blew.  "i can't travel.  and i am tired of specialists abdicating their responsibilities and dumping everything on s.  so step up!" 

lo, and behold:  he prescribed an experimental drug i have been wanting to try and a stronger med for spasms.  and though it is too early to tell much except that i am seeing double, i think they might also be helping with pain and spasms, as per The Grand Plan.

Did you know that to reference Quality of Life to a medico, you say "QOL"?  ha!

so that's where i am at... trying to get used to three meds that are kicking my booty.

i will try to call tomorrow... cause i love you and hope you have a wunnerful, wunnerful birthday.  the world is so much a better world for having you in it.

profderien and a big hey from a very sleepy, just up fred. sans uke

Dr. Phil's Moderators Unveiled (Kinda Like Romney's Tax Returns)

I've no good way to explain it, why I've returned to posting occasionally over at Dr. Phil dot com -- except that there are some people who also post there about whom I cannot seem to stop caring.
Man, that sounds stilted.  There are some people there I can't seem to stop caring about.
But I am hated, because I don't disguise my disgust for Phil McGraw and his Brand.  Because I get angry -- really, really angry -- when the "moderators" censor every word, pull posts seemingly at random, have a first trimester barely-there sense of humor, and especially when they underwrite those people whose mental health status is circling the drain.  They encourage people who are frankly delusional and paranoid, instead of intervening or supplying the "best in the world" type of assistance that only a Phil McGraw could.
Anywho... (Did you know that I've recently been introduced to a woman whose real name is Cindy Lou Who?  I kid you not!)  Anywho... several other posters have been miffed by the censorship and have hesitantly spoken up about it.  Yes, I AM criticizing the hesitancy of their "J'accuse..." -- In case you haven't noticed, I'm lately a huge fan of "manning up" and clanging your brass balls, whether you have to purchase them or whether they're organically all yours.  I've had it with temerity.
Temerity kills people.
Go ahead, ask me how I know.  I dare ya.
Oops.  I am transferring the anger that fuels my writing over yonder onto my Gentle Readers here, safe within the daub-and-wattle of Marlinspike Hall (it's mostly stone masonry, actually), here in the Western regions of the Lone Alp, all wrapped up in the phenomenal Tête de Hergé.  Here, where we exhale evil humours out of our nares and inhale the sweet end products of the algae in The Moat.  It is, in fact, the prevalence of our choleric, melancholic, sanguine, and phlegmatic contributions that form a protective ring of basic rarefied sputum around The Manor.  We're still working on the algae.

The four temperaments (Clockwise from top right: choleric; melancholic; sanguine; phlegmatic).

There is probably some rule, maybe even some law, some Terms of Usage bit of blather that should prevent me from republishing the stuff below.  "Ha!"  I say.  "Ha!"  I take the risk for one reason, and one reason alone. One of the moderaters deigned to respond to my moaning, groaning post... and tried to use MOLIERE against moi!  Oh, the joy in MoiLand!
Anyway, this is how twitty, twittified, and ridiculous things are in Phil Territory.  Oh, and would one of you be so kind as to be in charge of collecting money for bail?  Thankyouverymuch. Please note, Lawyers of Doctor Feel, that I have protected all identities but my own.  Also, La Bonne et Belle Bianca Castafiore and her Lover Sven, along with Sven's quite costaud young studly son, Cabana Boy -- they all know where you live.  Yeah, that's right... 

Replied By: X on Oct 5, 2012, 9:53PM
Wow, big surprise, another post disappears..  If you cant post about your feelings, about depression then why have a board on depression????
If the mods feel that somewhere in the post there may be inappropiate things, take it out, I am sure you can edit, but why remove the whole entire post???    And if the post is erased then we should be offered the courtesy of an email (because you have everyones in their profile) explaining why it was inappropriate and erased.

Mary:: Made a post earlier this evening, expressed my sorrow at the loss of your neighbor but big surprise, it disappeared...

Replied By: Z on Oct 5, 2012, 11:23PM
Posts are disappearing. Is there a glitch in the system or something? While it's understandable that some posts may need to be deleted it is VERY upsetting for some. It makes it very hard to support someone when the posts they write gets deleted.Is it possibly because our board is being featured?

I do get the fact that you want people to stay on topic but when we take the time to type posts only to come back here to find them missing it actually CAUSES depression because it's like we are being told in OUR safe place that what we think is NOT important. Please put yourselves in our place? Please put yourselves in the new people's place? How would you feel if you came here seeking support only to find your post was deleted? How can I help others when I can't see their posts? Depressed people usually cannot stay on one topic at a time. Depressed people give up easily (sad but true). Perhaps if at all possible should you feel the need to delete a post you could reply to the post first to give the poster a chance to edit it before you do? Otherwise we could lose even more members or potential members.You never know what someone who is depressed might do. Er DON'T worry I'm NOT talking about me! I'm just curious because I've seen a couple of posts disappear that were not offensive at all. 
Replied By: profderien on Oct 6, 2012, 7:59AM - In reply to Z
i join (once again) voices with mary and joyce -- moderation seems almost like a game, a catch-as-catch-can kind of endeavor.

on the one hand, there is the impression that the moderators are overwhelmed with work.  i imagine they are, since it has been decided that every word, every inference, every emotion, every vent needs to be vetted by... whomever these moderators are.  so occasionally, we write something, it appears, then disappears, we bark and complain, and then, "poof" -- it reappears.  because the mods are so weighed down with the work of censorship.

on the other hand, there is what i *know*.  when i am critical, i don't get published.  when i am too direct, i don't get published.  should i suggest that the mods/drphil are coddling some mentally ill people who need help instead of coddling?  shazaam!  my posts are in the outer atmosphere.  should i simper, kiss butt, write a poem, light a candle?  no problem!

but this is a place for people with problems.  so stop censoring the problems, they're real!  it is kind of funny, since you have, in the past, let people go on and on for months, even years, scamming other support group participants with sob stories that the moderators apparently ate up with relish.. i would refer you to a post about that on the old chronic pain board, but that board has been eliminated. (if people would just buy all of frank lawlis' books, get tested for heavy metals, there would be no chronic pain, right?)

the users can tell who is real and who is not, and eventually can work it out amongst themselves -- better than can the moderators?  why?  because we have an investment.  these are our stories here, this is our life splayed out on the screen.  dr. phil is not the one taking any risks, we are.

so... yeah, the mods are busy with the busy work of vetting every written word -- which at the very least is a waste of their talents.  and yeah... they are engaged in senseless censorship.

i am posting this at 10:59 am, my time.  let's see how long before it's pulled.

"the truth? you can't handle the truth..."

Replied By: Y on Oct 6, 2012, 8:12AM - In reply to profderien
Emoting anger and rage might "feel good" in the short term, however, developing more constructive tools and skill sets might be more helpful in navigating life.
In the 17th Century, Moliere advocated the philosophy of moderation which is as pertinent today as then.
There is a marvelous place for anger and is called Therapy.
Replied By: profderien on Oct 6, 2012, 8:43AM - In reply to Y
it speaks!  thank you, moderator.

emoting, emoting..what possible role could that have on this site, do ya think?  have you noticed the leitmotif running through most of your adherents' lives -- that of not having enough money to buy the tools you so blithely suggest?  might that not explain the instense begging that breaks out like smallpox from time to time?  for make-overs, for money to get to hospitals, money to keep the internet available for access to helpful sites like... this one.

"constructive tools and skills" -- as far as i can see, the ones that you are advocating fall under the rubric of 'sublimation.'  or is dr. phil wishing us all to be subsumed by some skinnerian device, and our rewards and disincentives come through whether or not the moderators will publish our over the top emoting or our oppressed/suppressed pollyanna acts?

i gotta give you the brass balls award, male or female, for mentioning molière to me.  give Le Médecin malgré lui a read.  and no, molière was not exactly an advocate for moderation... or at least, he was about as much as was rabelais.

i've had therapy. it was great.  they tell me i don't need any more.  but if you don't want me to emote anger and rage, kindly delineate what it is okay to emote.  i mean, heck, if i suppress that, won't that morph into depression and grief...?

in reply to moderator's comment:

"Emoting anger and rage might "feel good" in the short term, however, developing more constructive tools and skill sets might be more helpful in navigating life.
In the 17th Century, Moliere advocated the philosophy of moderation which is as pertinent today as then.
There is a marvelous place for anger and is called Therapy."
Actually, hmmmm.  I've no idea if the person to whom I was responding was a moderator or not.  Oh, well, I got to emote all over the page (it'll be hours of cleaning for some poor crew working at or below minimum wage....).

Speaking of which, I'd best at least put our small apartment here in the East Wing in some sort of order before I get hauled off to debtor's prison for "stealing from's website."

It's been fun... Try to carry on without me.  Go Joey!  Go Hannah!  Go Kate!  Go Ashley!  Oh, dear God, I was not cut out for incarceration.  I'm much too pretty.

Friday, October 5, 2012

Now that's whatcha call a STUD MUFFIN!

Paul Krugman on Romney's Sick Sense of Humor

Romney’s Sick Joke
Published: October 4, 2012

“No. 1,” declared Mitt Romney in Wednesday’s debate, “pre-existing conditions are covered under my plan.” No, they aren’t — as Mr. Romney’s own advisers have conceded in the past, and did again after the debate.

Was Mr. Romney lying? Well, either that or he was making what amounts to a sick joke. Either way, his attempt to deceive voters on this issue was the biggest of many misleading and/or dishonest claims he made over the course of that hour and a half. Yes, President Obama did a notably bad job of responding. But I’ll leave the theater criticism to others and talk instead about the issue that should be at the heart of this election.

So, about that sick joke: What Mr. Romney actually proposes is that Americans with pre-existing conditions who already have health coverage be allowed to keep that coverage even if they lose their job — as long as they keep paying the premiums. As it happens, this is already the law of the land. But it’s not what anyone in real life means by having a health plan that covers pre-existing conditions, because it applies only to those who manage to land a job with health insurance in the first place (and are able to maintain their payments despite losing that job). Did I mention that the number of jobs that come with health insurance has been steadily declining over the past decade?

What Mr. Romney did in the debate, in other words, was, at best, to play a word game with voters, pretending to offer something substantive for the uninsured while actually offering nothing. For all practical purposes, he simply lied about what his policy proposals would do.

How many Americans would be left out in the cold under Mr. Romney’s plan? One answer is 89 million. According to the nonpartisan Commonwealth Foundation, that’s the number of Americans who lack the “continuous coverage” that would make them eligible for health insurance under Mr. Romney’s empty promises. By the way, that’s more than a third of the U.S. population under 65 years old.

Another answer is 45 million, the estimated number of people who would have health insurance if Mr. Obama were re-elected, but would lose it if Mr. Romney were to win.

That estimate reflects two factors. First, Mr. Romney proposes repealing the Affordable Care Act, which means doing away with all the ways in which that law would help tens of millions of Americans who either have pre-existing conditions or can’t afford health insurance for other reasons. Second, Mr. Romney is proposing drastic cuts in Medicaid — basically to save money that he could use to cut taxes on the wealthy — which would deny essential health care to millions more Americans. (And, no, despite what he has said, you can’t get the care you need just by going to the emergency room.)

Wait, it gets worse. The true number of victims from Mr. Romney’s health proposals would be much larger than either of these numbers, for a couple of reasons.

One is that Medicaid doesn’t just provide health care to Americans too young for Medicare; it also pays for nursing care and other necessities for many older Americans.

Also, many Americans have health insurance but live under the continual threat of losing it. Obamacare would eliminate this threat, but Mr. Romney would bring it back and make it worse. Safety nets don’t just help people who actually fall, they make life more secure for everyone who might fall. But Mr. Romney would take that security away, not just on health care but across the board.


Thursday, October 4, 2012

joey is OFF the vent!

i hope most of you have subscribed to joey keller's caringbridge page, so that you are able to get updates as fast as they come.  but if you haven't, allow me to steal a couple of nick's latest entries.  get ready to do your happy dance... oh, and look at this face unencumbered by intubation!  soon, i hope, he'll be done with the feeding tube, and won't be so terribly exhausted.  joey, we're so proud of you, kiddo...

Written 7 hours ago

Your services are required. :)

We were able to get a room downstairs at the Ronald McDonald (in house) House, and I insisted that Elizabeth go down there and sleep. For the first time a week, or however long we've been here, she did. She set her alarm for 2:30a and came up for us to switch, and I told her I was feeling good, loving the time with J-Dogg, and to go back and sleep. She did. He dozed off around 5a and when she came in the room this morning around 7:30a, I was snoring like 350 lb. WWF wrestler after a night of hard partying. I have never gone w/o sleep like this. I'm seeing life in a WHOLE new way. LOL.

OK, here's the latest, we need your prayers. We have noticed that all the times Joey stops breathing, are after and closely associated with sneezes, coughing, and yawns. Unless you are his parent, and sitting next to him and studying him like we do, you would just think he's "failing" the CPAP tests they do. Although, he's done pretty well overall. The neurology team was so positive yesterday and cannot believe his improvement, and began, like we were, thinking outside the box asking us if he sometimes has apnea at home. Does he breathe unusually deep, etc. We thought about it as objectively as we could, and have indeed seen him do that thing, where they take a huge breath and kind of shake upon "awakening" or realizing they need to breathe or whatever. He loves to take naps on the floor in front of the TV. So we help him lay down there, and we'll be watching TV over him, and HAVE seen him do that. We just thought it was him, and we are pretty sure he did that before all of this started. SO, they are willing to try extubating him based on our obvservations and his history. This would explain why he can breathe solid and textbook pattern, for like 4 hours, then they drain his tube (after coughing) and he holds his breath beyond the 45 seconds. Not to mention, his system has gotten used to the vent breathing for him, and evidently the body will sort of atrophy and grow to depend on the ventilator, get lazy kind of thing. SO, after our big meeting at 2p (all the medical teams are meeting with us to have round table discussion about our options and his "long term options and prognosis") they would like to try to pull the tube out. Another big factor in this decision is how incredibly unhappy he his. His is depressed. We have been playing worship music in the background, I've been looking at him non-stop so he knows he's not alone, Phineas and Ferb, talking about spending rediculous amount of money on Legos. Anything to get him to think about the great future God has for him, and that this is temporary and that we are going home soon, w/o a vent (saying all this in FAITH). I have never lied to my son and have taken some heat for this, you know little white lies you tell kids, etc. God shoots straight with us, we should do the same to our kids. My theory on this is that, if they learn they can't trust us, they grow up feeling like they can't trust what God said. Anyway, my point, when I tell him something, he knows I mean it. I keep looking him in the eye, telling him those things. We both believe it. All three of us, believe it.

So, we need TEAM JOEY to pray like never before. This is the biggest test of his life. He is so unhappy with tubes coming out of everywhere and for his own safety, when we're not around, they literally tie his hands down. He's so compliant. All last night he'd try to reach for something around his head, I'd freak out and grab his hand, and he'd ever so carefully try to not touch what I said, and gently itch his ear or cheek or whatever. He started to itch his port and I wigged, and he immediately stopped. He has always been so compliant and wanting to please us. He is such a good boy. So good.

Results of MRI probably before or at 2p meeting. This is a big day. BIG. We have so many people to thank. People that are working overtime so I can be here, the meals that have been coming in. Mitzi and Cari, that was amazing. We will formally thank all of them after today. Today has to go well. I believe he'll perk up, w/o the tubes in, the coughing and sneezing will stop. And this will really start a cascade of good things to come for him.

Pray like your life depended on it. His does. Believe. See him breathing. See him sitting up in his bed talking and putting Legos together. Have confidence it will happen (Heb.11) If all we ever do is walk around accepting whatever comes our way and believing what our eyes see, and not what COULD be, well, that doesn't take any faith at all. And there's no way that can be God's plan for us. Just exist in the world. Accept it as it. Bad stuff happens, just the way it is. Another statistic. Another victim, fallen to cancer. Not this time. Please help me. I can see a day where we have a huge reception or open house or whatever, and he is healthy and thanking all of you. Hugs and conversations, maybe when he's older, thanking every one of you who took an hour to pray, sent a note, brought a meal, or told someone that you know is a "prayer warrior" that could make a difference. Who believed we don't just have to take life as it hits us, get kicked around, or accept evil in the world. But he knows how many people are praying. And after all of this, I know he'll want to thank anyone that had a hand in his recovery. I hope this doesn't sound preachy or like I got it all figured out and am trying to convince you of something. Exactly the opposite actually. I am trying to "encourage myself in the Lord" and get psyched up for a big day. He's counting on me. Thanks for helping us. We sure need it. :) Also, hope this was somewhat coherent and clear (mud?). So tired.


Written 5 hours ago

He did it. Was so brave. Our RT said shes been intubated 4 or 5 times and being extubated is horrible. So proud of him and thankful to God and TEAM JOEY! More info coming. We're a mess. So happy. So many ppl to thank for getting us through. He has a lot of healing to do, don't stop praying. A lot of things they are concerned about as far as seizures, brain function, and as always, fighting this cancer. Milestone. He is so relieved to get that tube and harness off. There is some concern about brain damage after seizure. And he has to sustain respiration. So far so good. :)


Care group team meetings
Written 3 hours ago

Just talked to the attending regarding care group teams meeting. They seemed really surprised. He said well, the meeting was to discuss all other outcomes except this. "This is a best case scenario." They (head attending) called off the meeting provided we understood Joey's long term prognosis. I smiled and said Dr. Shih has been very forthcoming and direct about his opinion of Joey's long term odds. We got it. Dr. Shih has actually been our biggest advocate through all this explaining to PICU team that he evaluate him in hem/onc (after seizure) that it was unlikely the cancer was causing this, and that being closest to Joey and dealing kids w/medullo that have seizures, everybody needed to calm down; my words and impression. We really appreciate Dr. Shih's professionalism and tact and willingness to speak up to the other specialist teams. Neurology was terrific as well. Dr. Harris had the thought too, outside the box, that maybe Joey's specific breathing physiology and habits fall outside of the programmed parameters of the ventilator. Amazing piece if technology (vent) but it was saying Joey flat out can't breath on his own. An analysis of Joey right now, relaxed in his bed, rolling at a 20-30 breaths per minute, O2 at 100%, normal heart rate, would certainly seem to contradict that. We understand their perspective. We do. They have to speak to what they observe and what history and statistics suggest are predictors of outcomes. I'm just really glad God gets the final say. 

Again thank you all for your prayers. We are so grateful we will be taking Joey home soon. Maybe Sat. Depends on how he does tonight breathing as far as getting his feeding tube going again. In the event they would need to intubate him again, he can't have anything in his system. So maybe tonight or morning start feeding then maybe take home sat or Sunday.

We'll let you know if there are any developments.

Tuesday, October 2, 2012

elizabeth, nick, and joey

Elizabeth, Joey, Nick
from Joey's CaringBridge page

There have been no updates to the journal that Nick usually maintains with great vigor -- not since September 30.  But this picture was added, and this picture says it all.

Do whatever it is you do, Dear Reader.

Beatrice Ravenel, That Timely Charleston Suffragette


I am only afraid
Of the cold dull lids of eyes,
And the cold dull grain of sand in the soul,
Indurate, insensate, not to be made incandescent
Even by God.
I am afraid of the stupid people.

I passed pleasant hours reading an obscure 2007 doctoral thesis last night -- "Captive Women, Cunning Texts: Confederate Daughters and the 'Trick-Tongue' of Captivity," by Rebecca L. Harrison.  It's in the digital archive of Georgia State University, under the aegis of the Department of English.

Okay, so I went straight to page 79.  I can vouch for pages 79 to 148.

There's just not that much out there about Beatrice Ravenel, Charleston poetess, normally assigned the role of writer for hire, functionary of occasional verse.  Harrison frames her alignment with regional Native American voices as speech out of, informed through, and both nurtured by and trapped in, captivity.

Anyway... that great segue!

Ravenel's poem, Fear, comes to me in its entirety whenever there's a vote on, and sometimes the day before a presidential debate.

I know, I know, I should honor the ignored Ravenel by introducing her wider work and not just reprinting Fear according to the electoral calendar.  While you are waiting for that to happen {smirk::smile}, give Professor Harrison a read.

Monday, October 1, 2012

Cheating With Waitresses: "Of Being Numerous"

I recently found a photo of The Great American Writer with whom I cohabitated on that street in Oakland that really was just barely Oakland.  Right off Telegraph Avenue, turn right at the pink stucco church with the red neon screaming i-am-a-church-in-this-drive-by-shooting-land.  Our landlords were Paul and something-something, who made us a brand new apartment that faced the small back yard, fenced, next door to The Great American Writer's cousin who introduced me to Rainier Ale and how easy it is to get a doctorate degree.  He thought I was a slut to have moved in with a student, even if it was a blood relative he could easily do without (that Rainier Ale was a truth serum).

My Great American Writer, our neighbor's cousin,  loved waitresses who coyly asked if he were a writer, as he held tables for hours, hand to forehead, pen in hand, fine leather writerly accoutrements that I bought him in Paris. They'd end up asking to hear a poem, and end up fucked in their own beds, as I slept, or did not sleep, in ours.  It was hardly worth unpacking, the moving out came so often.  I lived in people's basements and rent-out rooms, forced to adore the children that came with, and the coils screwing up through mattresses redolent of mildew, waiting for the call to meet, the weeping, the regret, the apology.  Those were the best meals, often fantastic Italian.  Roasted bones, gravy. The last after-the-cheat meal, though, he spent preening because a real [very published, visiting prof] poet was holding court two tables away.  I went back to Paris but still sent gifts.

His talent was in finding things -- overheard words, colors that clanged, shapely breasts unbound by bras.  That I taught a class in a tight tee without benefit of undergarment was what first attracted him to me, he said.  He said it as I took the first walk -- you know, the first naked walk away from the bed, you, walking as if you don't care, hoping you look good, good enough. Reaching the shower, getting all wet, roar of water in the ears, thanking God for that moment of obliteration.

That he gave me Oppen does not wipe the slate clean.  It's more that it clears the air and carries his cartoon bullshit balloons way high into the sky, leaving this poet dead of dementia who nailed his poems to plywood.  Not that Oppen is a comfort.  But he surely was, and is, an option.

The Great American Writer is now on staff at an exclusive private academy, very college preppy, very somehow Holden Caulfield.  The students rate the profs by stars, out of five, and he has three.  Does he make them read Oppen, or H.D., or Michael Palmer?  Does he read them the words he's overheard, the backs of waitresses and dismissed lovers?  Does he char the bones?  Does he remember my gazpacho, made on the coldest day of the year?

It started out warm, that day, perfect for cold soup, spicy 'maters, cucumber to cool the cheeks, for texture, and mild onion, then a front flew through, it was like an arctic winter, and you came home to my gazpacho, made on the coldest day of the year, to shower, change, and go out again, to meet someone at some café, my huge, huge pot of gazpacho a black hole in the fridge.  

The desire for soup hit when I was in line at Peet's, on Vine, near Chez Panisse (I blame Alice Waters for everything, mostly for infidelity, and the tomatoes) and there was a grocery, right there, and I filled my arms with bags of things so fresh and walked the hour and a quarter home.  Baguettes peeking out of paper bags, I was so desperate, my heart racing in its knowing.

That was the night I ran down our dangerous street in what can only be called a "flimsy nightgown" -- not pausing at the pink stucco/red neon church, no hitch in my stride as i ran across, back to Telegraph Avenue, site of my earlier foody saunter, to what suddenly was home base, the bus stop bench.  Mostly naked, frigid wind whipping, I was looking for the bus as well as your grey Mustang. When you woke next to me that tomorrow, I no longer spoke, all was done, the crazies were over. I had road rash on my feet, a few pebbles still embedded around the toes.

So, yeah, thanks for Oppen... for Oppen's Mary.... and all the Objectivists.  For somehow -- and it boggles the mind how! -- pointing your beefy finger straight at sincerity.


In the sense of transparence,
I don’t mean that much can be explained

Clarity in the sense of silence.


Of Being Numerous, Sections 1-22 by George Oppen


There are things
We live among ‘and to see them
Is to know ourselves’.

Occurrence, a part
Of an infinite series,

The sad marvels;

Of this was told
A tale of our wickedness.
It is not our wickedness.

‘You remember that old town we went to, and we sat in the ruined window, and we tried to imagine that we belonged to those times—It is dead and it is not dead, and you cannot imagine either its life or its death; the earth speaks and the salamander speaks, the Spring comes and only obscures it—’


So spoke of the existence of things,
An unmanageable pantheon

Absolute, but they say

A city of the corporations

In dreams

And images—

And the pure joy
Of the mineral fact

Tho it is impenetrable

As the world, if it is matter,
Is impenetrable.


The emotions are engaged
Entering the city
As entering any city.

We are not coeval
With a locality
But we imagine others are,

We encounter them. Actually
A populace flows
Thru the city.

This is a language, therefore, of New York


For the people of that flow
Are new, the old

New to age as the young
To youth

And to their dwelling
For which the tarred roofs

And the stoops and doors—
A world of stoops—
Are petty alibi and satirical wit
Will not serve.


The great stone
Above the river
In the pylon of the bridge


Frozen in the moonlight
In the frozen air over the footpath, consciousness

Which has nothing to gain, which awaits nothing,
Which loves itself


We are pressed, pressed on each other,
We will be told at once
Of anything that happens

And the discovery of fact bursts
In a paroxysm of emotion
Now as always.   Crusoe

We say was
So we have chosen.


Obsessed, bewildered

By the shipwreck
Of the singular

We have chosen the meaning
Of being numerous.


Amor fati
The love of fate

For which the city alone
Is audience

Perhaps blasphemous.

Slowly over islands, destinies
Moving steadily pass
And change

In the thin sky
Over islands

Among days

Having only the force
Of days

Most simple
Most difficult


‘Whether, as the intensity of seeing increases, one’s distance from Them, the people, does not also increase’
I know, of course I know, I can enter no other place

Yet I am one of those who from nothing but man’s way of thought and one of his dialects and what has happened to me
Have made poetry

To dream of that beach
For the sake of an instant in the eyes,

The absolute singular

The unearthly bonds
Of the singular

Which is the bright light of shipwreck


Or, in that light, New arts! Dithyrambic, audience-as-artists! But I will listen to a man, I will listen to a man, and when I speak I will speak, tho he will fail and I will fail. But I will listen to him speak. The shuffling of a crowd is nothing—well, nothing but the many that we are, but nothing.

Urban art, art of the cities, art of the young in the cities—The isolated man is dead, his world around him exhausted

And he fails! He fails, that meditative man! And indeed they cannot ‘bear’ it.


            it is that light
Seeps anywhere, a light for the times

In which the buildings
Stand on low ground, their pediments
Just above the harbor

Absolutely immobile,

Hollow, available, you could enter any building,
You could look from any window
One might wave to himself
From the top of the Empire State Building—


If you can


Phyllis—not neo-classic,
The girl’s name is Phyllis—

Coming home from her first job
On the bus in the bare civic interior
Among those people, the small doors
Opening on the night at the curb
Her heart, she told me, suddenly tight with happiness—

So small a picture,
A spot of light on the curb, it cannot demean us

I too am in love down there with the streets
And the square slabs of pavement—

To talk of the house and the neighborhood and the docks

And it is not ‘art’


‘In these explanations it is presumed that an experiencing subject is one occasion of a sensitive reaction to an actual world.’

the rain falls
that had not been falling
and it is the same world

. . .

They made small objects
Of wood and the bones of fish
And of stone. They talked,
Families talked,
They gathered in council
And spoke, carrying objects.
They were credulous,
Their things shone in the forest.

They were patient
With the world.
This will never return, never,
Unless having reached their limits

They will begin over, that is,
Over and over


           unable to begin
At the beginning, the fortunate
Find everything already here. They are shoppers,
Choosers, judges; . . . And here the brutal
is without issue, a dead end.
                                            They develop
Argument in order to speak, they become
unreal, unreal, life loses
solidity, loses extent, baseball’s their game
because baseball is not a game
but an argument and difference of opinion
makes the horse races. They are ghosts that endanger

One’s soul. There is change
In an air
That smells stale, they will come to the end
Of an era
First of all peoples
And one may honorably keep

His distance
If he can.


I cannot even now
Altogether disengage myself
From those men

With whom I stood in emplacements, in mess tents,
In hospitals and sheds and hid in the gullies
Of blasted roads in a ruined country,

Among them many men
More capable than I—

Muykut and a sergeant
Named Healy,
That lieutenant also—

How forget that? How talk
Distantly of ‘The People’

Who are that force
Within the walls
Of cities

Wherein their cars

Echo like history
Down walled avenues
In which one cannot speak.


Chorus (androgynous): ‘Find me
So that I will exist, find my navel
So that it will exist, find my nipples
So that they will exist, find every hair
Of my belly, I am good (or I am bad),
Find me.’


‘. . . he who will not work shall not eat,
and only he who was troubled shall find rest,
and only he who descends into the nether world shall rescue his beloved,
and only he who unsheathes his knife shall be given Isaac again. He who will not work shall not eat. . .
but he who will work shall give birth to his own father.’


The roots of words
Dim in the subways

There is madness in the number
Of the living
‘A state of matter’

There is nobody here but us chickens


He wants to say
His life is real,
No one can say why

It is not easy to speak

A ferocious mumbling, in public
Of rootless speech


It is the air of atrocity,
An event as ordinary
As a President.

A plume of smoke, visible at a distance
In which people burn.


Now in the helicopters the casual will
Is atrocious

Insanity in high places,
If it is true we must do these things
We must cut our throats

The fly in the bottle

Insane, the insane fly

Which, over the city
Is the bright light of shipwreck


—They await

War, and the news
Is war

As always

That the juices may flow in them
Tho the juices lie.

Great things have happened
On the earth and given it history, armies
And the ragged hordes moving and the passions
Of that death. But who escapes

Among these riders
Of the subway,

They know
But now as I know

Failure and the guilt
Of failure.
As in Hardy’s poem of Christmas

We might half-hope to find the animals
In the sheds of a nation
Kneeling at midnight,

Farm animals,
Draft animals, beasts for slaughter
Because it would mean they have forgiven us,
Or which is the same thing,
That we do not altogether matter.


There can be a brick
In a brick wall
They eye picks

So quiet of a Sunday
Here is the brick, it was waiting
Here when you were born




In the sense of transparence,
I don’t mean that much can be explained

Clarity in the sense of silence.